A Tale Of Crossed Blades, Part One
by LordProfessorOfBadassery
Summary: This is a fan fic about the civil war, mostly. It is my first attempt at fan-fiction, so constructive criticism is appreciated. There is cursing and violence and other quite raw teams in this text. Keep that in mind.
1. Chapter 1

A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES, PART ONE: PROLOUGE

"What in the name of the emperor?" muttered Quentin Cipius, legate of Whiterun imperial camp, when he saw the rider approaching from the south. It was a cold and grim morning, the sky as grey as the mountains. The camp stood on the never ending tundra, nearby an old pillar which the Nordic recruits called "Gjukar's monument". It was a day like any other, the camp bustling with activity. The camp was more of a large village, to be honest, but it consisted of tents located in perfect formation, just like his men during training. Quentin cracked a smile as he watched the rider approach, thinking of how disciplined his men where. Even the Nords showed promise. But his thoughts where wandering. The legate turned his attention back to the approaching rider. If this rider was a Stormcloak messenger demanding their surrender, he would personally slit the fools throat, as he did to all enemy couriers coming his way. If it was a woman he would let his men entertain themselves with her before. That was the way of war, simply enough. The horseman was now only fifty yards away from the large camp. As he came closer it became obvious that he was wearing red, and the imperial dragon was easily identified on his breastplate. This disappointed the old legate more then he cared to admit. There had been months since the last time his blade was bloodied. But he greeted the messenger with a smile, and the messenger returned it with courtesy. "Ave Cipius, legate of whiterun!" the messenger, a comely young Redguard whit a large scar ravaging his face, said. "We should go inside your tent, m'lord. These news are of a... troubling sort." the young man said. "Whatever you can say to me you can say to them, lad." Quentin said, pleased by the soldiers courtesy. Apparently these foreign recruits where not dimwits after all.

"The general was very specific on this subject, and..." the soldier begun, but he found himself interrupted. "General Tullius is not here, and I would have told my men anyway." He ordered. Perhaps it was not a good idea to refuse instructions from Tullius, but the auxiliary's refusal to obey Quentin frustrated him to no end. The young soldier gazed down into the ground, gathering his courage. Finally he looked the legate dead in the eye and spoke. "Jarl Ulfric has escaped us". Quentin felt a sudden cold in his stomach, and for a moment the world ceased to be.

Hjornskar Head-Smasher danced around the Ice-Vein, swinging the wooden club high above his head. He struck the younger warrior right in the ankle, and then, in quick succession, his back. He laughed as the younger man attempted to slash him with the dull and wooden blade he swung., missing at every attempt. Stormblade Hjornskar was merely entertaining himself. His sparring partner would have been dead fifty times over, had they wielded steel and iron. But they where not, and the battling kept his men fit and alert. Half an hour passed. Ive-Vein Regnor was laying on the ground, inhaling more air then a full-grown mammoth. Hjornskar's face was a hard mask, he knew. Many things he shared with his men, but the luxury of rest was not one of them. He helped the soldier up, and then proceeded to walk through the camp. The camp was quite large, and the tents where spread out randomly across the ground. Fur tents they where, perfect for the Nordic winter. Of course, they where functional enough during autumn as well. Everywhere you looked, things where happening. A skinny little boy, beardless he was, was taking care of the fires in the middle of the large camp. Two soldiers where sparring on the top of a small hill. Inside a tent a shieldmaiden and a Ice-Vein where entertaining each other in bed, and in another some old crone was cooking soup. Hjornskar noticed some less pleasant details, as well. Inside one tent, a woman was screaming and kicking as his men raped and ravaged her. "She ought not to have stolen from our army, this was her own doing" Hjornskar muttered to himself. Some outlaws seem to think that the Stormcloak food supplies where easy prey, sneaking into the camp at night, when his warriors where to drunk or to sleepy to notice. But most of them where caught, and they paid dearly for their folly. The women was lucky she was, well... a woman, for most lost their lives at once. Hjornskar finally reached his tent, a large thing standing in the northernmost part of the camp, in the shadow of the throat of the world. He shock his head as he sat down in his chair. With Ulfric captured, who knew what would happen to their cause? Just as he reached for his goblet a young Snow-Hammer almost ran into the tent, almost knocking the command-table over in the process. "I bring good tidings, Stormblade!" he shouted. "What is this then?" came Hjornskars answer. "Jarl Ulfric is a free man once more, by the grace of Talos!" the young warrior said. Hjornskar cracked a smile. The rebellion would continue.


	2. Chapter 2

A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES PART TWO, SUFFERING OF THE COMMON

There are brutal, violent and sexual themes in this text, rape also comes up. Cursing occasionally happens. You have been warned.

Dregg felt like his lungs where about to explode. An old crone living outside his home-village had once told him that running would do that to you. When he had told his father, the man had smiled and ruffed around his son's hair. "That old woman means well, but do not believe a word coming out of her mouth. She was old when your grandfather was your age, I've heard". Those words had calmed little Dregg. His fathers words always calmed him, as did his sister's smile. He had no mother, she had died putting him into the world. But now he was not only motherless, but fatherless as well. The men in blue cloths had burned it all. They had kicked down the door to their home. They had questioned his father about... Things. They had spoken of a man named Tullius, and another whom they refereed to as "The Bear Of Eastmarch". When they mentioned the bear, Dregg's father had spit on the ground, screaming "King-slayer" and "Traitor" and "whoreson". The men had plunged their blades down his neck, and he never smiled again.

Dregg found it hard to keep the pace for long, running was making his chest and throat hurt. Al around him where bushes, trees and rocks. The night was breaking, and it was getting foggy. Dregg could see a river in the distance, just close enough for it to be visible in the fog. He was now walking around a muddy little track, he had stopped running after slipping on a tree branch, "I need to eat" he said out loud, just because he desired the sound of a human voice. There where some berries growing along the riverbank, but his sister had once told him that berries where poisonous more often than not. _No_ . He was a fool, thinking about his sister now. The way she smiled, the way she would comfort him when he had slipped and hurt his knee, which he did often. The way she would always talk about that boy, the merchant's son. They would wed, she always said, and make Dregg the youngest uncle in the village. The thought had made Dregg strangely happy, but when the blue men came, the merchant's son had been among the defenders. When he and his sister had run from the burning shell of the village they had lived in their entire lives. When they where still fleeing, the red men with dragons on their cloaks had come for them. Drunk, they had been, speaking of "The capture of the bear", or something. Dregg had a hard time to recall it. They had boosted to each other about some ambush they had taken part in. Dregg and his sister had hidden under a rock. The rock had been large, and despite his fear he had enjoyed laying there, smelling the moss and hearing his sister's warm breath. But then the red men had pulled them out, and laughed they had. They had grabbed his sister, pulling her towards their tents. Her last words to Dregg had been "Run". So he had. And now, here he was. Dregg needed to get over the river. He wanted to leave. But how? Dregg could not swim to well, but what choice did he have? There was an inn of some sort over there, too. Could he only swim...

Darius shock the covers from his body, but regretted it almost right away. _Without it, it is too damn cold, and with it, I am sweating like I have some bloody fever! _He cracked a smile, despite the fact that his "morning sickness" was quite bad. The innkeepers daughter had proved a fine sport, willing and well experienced between the loins. He let his gaze wander through the room, and nothing had been stolen during the night. This was good. The area around "the triple border", the lands where Hammerfell, High Rock and The Reach met, was otherwise known to be quite lawless. _I suppose it is because I look like some bloody beggar. _He had at least been clever enough to dress up in proper clothing, and not travel in his uniform. Many a legionnaire had lost their lives that way since the rebellion in the north had started. He got up from the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping woman.

He found his ragged tunic and grey coat under the bead, and his breeches where tossed in a corner. Darius's dagger, at least, was at a proper place, on the chair where he had left it. He went down the stairs, reaching the main room.

It was a typical tavern, built of wood and very smoky. He ordered a cup of wine from the innkeeper's wife. He got it, that and a look of disapproval. _Your daughter was not exactly maiden, so it makes little sense to be angry with me._ He sat down, and smelled his wine, to make sure the innkeeper's wife had not poisoned him in a fit of rage. Overprotective parents would do that, he had heard. It did not smell queerly, however, and he was very thirsty. The wine was thick, and not at all very tasty, but it served. _The more I drink the less I think about her, my love, and what they did to her, so I will just drink more._

He broke his fast on bred and boiled eggs. As he ate, he noticed some commotion in the other end of the tavern. _Mercenaries, what a bloody surprise._ The mercenaries were your typical triple-border ruffians, men who most likely took swords in their bellies more often than they bathed. The biggest and most intimidating of the four outlaws was an Orc, seven feet tall or more. There was a man whom looked Redguard, and the two others were Needic of blood. The three humans were all wearing boiled leather and iron half-helms. The Orc was dressed in plate-mail, but wore nothing to protect his head. _Foolish, but I suppose I would do the same if I had a face so large and fearsome. His foes piss themselves, I would wager. _The green-skinned man had several small horns on his forehead, and he had tusks on his, very large, under-bite. They would be trouble, that was plain. Darius moved closer to hear the talking. "My honourable friend, you must realise that this scoundrel will kill your wife, rape your daughter and slit your throat. I give you my word that we have been ordered by lord Henrik Roseblade of Evermoore, Jarl Igmund of The Reach and Prince Ahzoka of Dragontail to hunt him down." The Breton's perfume stank all the way too Darius's table, and his moustache reached all the way down to his shoulders. "Oh shut up, you bloody sword-whore! There have been scoundrels coming to this tavern since the days when you were still sucking your mothers tit, and you are as rotten as this man you are chasing!" came the innkeepers answer. Darius felt his respect for the man growing. _Perhaps I should not have fucked his daughter? He does not seem like the kind of man whom handles an insult well. _Darius moved closer, sensing that it was about to get ugly. He was not surprised when the Orc prepared to draw his great-axe, and the Breton moved a hand to the hilt of his sword. Darius pulled forth his dagger, wishing that he held a gladius, and not this peace of dull iron. The Orc screamed a war cry, and kicked the innkeeper straight in the belly. The innkeepers wife grabbed a cleaver, and furiously attacked the moustached Breton. The innkeeper had found an axe somewhere, and the fight started for real. Darius moved in towards the Redguard, whom was too preoccupied fighting the innkeeper to notice, and slit his throat. Suddenly, Darius held a shortsword in his hand. Some of the other patrons had joined the fight, though they where not exactly soldiers. An old man, sixty at least, charged the Orc. The Orc took the old fools head off in seconds. Darius slashed towards the Nord, a stocky man singing a longsword, but was surprised by the Breton, forcing him to parry. _Too strong foes, and only some peasants, a woman and an old innkeeper to help me. _He moved aside, barely dodging the Orc's axe. Darius switched focus, and managed to catch the Breton in the back. The shortsword sliced through the meat and bone and guts. The Breton's moustaches flew side to side as he screamed, the scent of his perfume being mixed with the iron stink of blood. Darius ripped his blade back out, pulling with some organs in the process. He ran at the Nord, knocking him of his feet. The innkeeper's wife slit the man's throat while he was still on his back. The Orc stood alone. _But as long as he have two arms, no Orc is alone._ Darius shock the thought away, and moved over to the bar.

Ghalam Gro-Ghatakk was a warrior, and he would not die in an inn like some drunk, slain by some innkeeper and his woman, or by this bloody Colovian. His companions were dead, but somewhere up in the mountains where his other brothers, and he was important. They needed him, to help lead them, for they were a company of fickle mercenaries, and someone needed to keep them loyal. And should he die, he would bring this entire bloody inn with him. The innkeeper was a strong man, but not very fast. Ghalam screamed from the top of his lungs, and swung his axe into the man's stomach. The innkeeper's wife screamed, almost as loud as if it had been herself he cut. He heard another scream from the stairs, the scream of a young girl. He moved on towards the Colovian, but there he got surprised. The man knew how to parry, that was for sure. _A bloody legionnaire. _Ghalam knew how to chop, however. He screamed again punching the Colovian in the belly so hard he flew right over the table. He moved in over the Colovian, preparing to chop him into pieces. _For the glory of Malacath! _He raised the axe, laughing. But then time stopped for a moment. When he looked down, he saw a horn coming out of his belly. _Have I grown horns there as well? _The big Orc collapsed on the floor.

Janella looked at the spear in her hand. She had never held one before. _Yet now I put it up someone's back_. But all she wanted was to get to her father, and this Orc was standing in her way. She pulled the spear out of the Orc's back, creating the revolting sound of flesh and guts being ripped apart. Janella dropped the weapon, still unable to accept that she had just done that. She stood there for a while, letting dizziness come and pass. When she opened her eyes, her mother was tending to her father in the middle of the inn. He was pale and looked feverish, his beard filled with saliva and blood. She defeated the urge to retch, and sat down. "We are not letting you die." was all her mother said. "Mother, you are no healer. How will we..." a single look from her mother quieted her. "You can not save me. I survived a bloody war, but this is enough. The Orc got me, an axe straight in the belly. I saw my brothers dying of similar wounds during the war. It is over" her father spit out. Afterwards he started coughing out blood. _There truly is no hope, then._She took her mother in her arms, and together they wept.

When Janella woke the next morning he stood in front of her. Darius, he had introduced himself as. She just stared at him for a while. The smooth skin, the short black hair, the short stub of hair that grew across his chin. He was slightly taller than your typical Breton, though this was not strange since he was Colovian, and he looked lean and strong at the same time. _He is truly handsome... _But in the deepest part of her head, she regretted bedding him. Her father would not have been so quick to anger, had he not heard the moans from the stranger's room. Her father had always been traditional, and knowing that his daughter was being fucked by a stranger... It had not improved his mood. She shock her head. She was a grown woman, and this was not Wayrest or Chorrol or Solitude, this was the triple-border. _Here life is short and bitter, and you should always take the pleasures you can get. You taught me that, father. _In the end, her father had fallen victim to his own temper. She had told her mother that, and received a smile back. "That is bloody true" her father had said. Those had been his last words. She wept again. Over her father, over the Orc she had slain, over her mother, who had lost half of herself. Darius shock her shoulder gently, looking at her with pity in those cold, grey eyes. "What was his name? He saved all of our lives, and I do not even know his name." the Colovian said. "Edrik" her mother answered from the corner were she had slept. "His name was Edrik, and he was a good man." her mother got up on her feet, looking around the tavern. "We need to leave this village. There is nothing left for us here. We bury your father, burn the sword-whores, and then we leave." she said. "Where will we go?" Janella asked. "The same way as your friend. To skyrim."


	3. Chapter 3

A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES, PART THREE, SEASON UNENDING

**Before reading this, you should know: this text is about the civil war in Skyrim, and its consequences. There is violent and sexual themes in this text, including cursing. This series (but not this particular chapter, of course) is my first real attempt at fan-fiction. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Enjoy! And, yes. I am aware that Idolaf and Alfhild are married in game, with Idolaf being no Battle-Born by ancestry, but I prefer them being siblings, Jon the heir to their thaneship and stuff.**

**Cladius The Veteran**

_**Season unending **_**the old man mused to himself as he watched the fire**. When he was a lad, he used to think it odd that the barbarians up north had given war such a name. Wars would always end, no matter what. And, in a sense, he had been right. But war never just... goes away. Lake Rumare had been beautiful when it burned, he recalled. _And now my home is being fed to the flames, just because I gave food and shelter too the wrong men. _The thought gave him a bitter taste in his mouth, and he did all he could not to listen to the screams of the other inhabitants. _It is a ironic, really. _He had been an imperial soldier most of his life, only recently retiring to Skyrim. The harshness of the land withered every man down to his true self, and that had been good for Cladius. Thirty-five years wearing a dragon on his mail, serving in the fourteenth legion, down in Anvil. If there was one thing he needed, it was some peace and quiet and then a quick sickness to carry him of to his ancestors, and he would be happy like a sleeping babe. _All I need to do is to open that bloody mouth of mine, and they will let me go_. The men plundering and burning the little hamlet were legionnaires, like him. It would be so easy. But he could not do it.

"If the village dies, so does I." he said to the night. As he felt pain in his tightly tied wrists and his face was licked by the warmth of flames he noticed something wet on his cheek. _Bloody tears_ he thought as the world died around him.

**Darius, Legionnare Of The Ninth Legion **

**Darius could hear the light tap of rain as he woke**. It was a gloomy and grey day, with not a single glimpse of sun upon the sky. He prepared to get up, catching a glimpse of Janella before exiting the tent. That had almost become a custom of his. Somehow her presence made him feel calm, but it also summoned butterflies to his stomach. He recognised the feeling from Mirisha, and that scared him more than a little. When Janella spoke to him, he would occasionally find himself grasping for air and words alike, as if he was some shy maid. It had not felt like that on their first night together, he recalled. But then she had just been the inkeepers daughter, and he had only desired her bed, for one night. But since then she had saved his life and shared his bedroll at least a dozen times. She was clever and humorous, and he found himself actually wondering whether she froze or not when the storms ravaged the western Jeralls. He had not pitied someone that way for a long time. _Not again. _

He shock his head and donned the longbow they had found in the old inn, despite knowing the Jeralls had scarce any game at this time of the year.

_Hunting will clear my head, at least. _He threw the quiver over his back and jogged towards the forest.

**Hayna, The Innkeeper's Widow**

**Hayna wondered if it had been the right choice, going to skyrim**. It was being ravaged by war, and Hayna knew the prize of war more than anyone else. The things the elves had done to her during the last one... she shuddered to think of it. When she closed her eyes she could still feel their fists flying into her face, their hot irons pushed towards her skin and the way they would laugh when they were beating her. But that was not worst. The worst was what they did afterwards. They claimed their prize, leaving her weeping and despoiled, fearing that their seed had taken to grow inside her. But in that, at least, the gods had been good. She had not been with child, and that had made her escape from Cyrodiil a lot easier, she did not doubt.

Hayna knew that she was risking the same fate for her daughter, but she also knew that she had no other choice. If they stayed they were doomed, she and her daughter both. The triple-border had always been dangerous, but with the outlaws getting bolder, sword-whores plundering, imperial justice dwindling and winter approaching... Entering a land torn by war was a great risk. _But better risking death than making it a certainty. _

The woman switched her attention back to the camp-fire, remembering the fire she had lit for Edrik and herself, the night they had made Janella. They had been hunting for the elves that had raped her a few years before, and they had partly succeeded. One of the elves remained in the western Jeralls, the one that had hurt her the most. Edrik had overpowered the elf, whom apparently had deserted the Thalmor. Hayna had stabbed him to death herself, and that night she had let Edrik warm her. When Janella was born, with the fierce red hair of her father and the furious brown eyes of her mother, Hayna and Edrik had taken to call her "Janella Blood-Born". But they had almost immediately given up on that. It reminded them of what they had done, and Hayna felt their deeds made their hands as bloody as any thalmor dog. Edrik had never understood that, not truly. The man had been half a Nord by blood and heart, and he seemed only too love her more after they took their revenge. For that Hayna had been gratefull. She almost expected to feel his hands on her shoulders, and the warmth of his breath, forgetting his recent death. _Season unending_, Edrik always called it. _War that does not end._

**Carl Idolaf Battle-Born**

**Carl Idolaf gazed around the square, looking for his brother. **Jon was late, as usual. _Probably busy fucking that Gray-Mane whore, I would wager. _Now, he knew he was being unfair. There was nothing wrong with Olfina, just... She was a Gray-Mane. Idolaf loved his brother too much to tell their father, but still, he did not in any way approve of it. Jon was the heir, the oldest, and he was dishonouring his family by bedding the daughter of their sworn enemy. Idolaf swept his long, golden hair out of his face, just as he saw his brother approaching. He would have smiled, but he was displeased with his brothers lateness.

"You are the heir to Stridborg Keep and our family fortune, start bloody acting like it!" was Idolaf's way of greating. Jon Cracked that smile that made the women melt and made Idolaf want to punch him.

"I was honing my skills with swords, dear brother"

"Which kind?"

"What do you mean?" Jon asked.

"The one in between your legs, or the one in your hand?" Idolaf had won the sparring of words, he knew. Jon's handsome face looked fearful for a moment, and then it returned to it's normal look, that hard and oddly powerful look that made Idolaf strangely happy. _I guess there is still hope for our clan, after all._

"Let us go see the jarl, brother. He appears to be a bit obsessed with this "High-King's man", or whatever that bloody traitor calls himself now." Idolaf said. They both nodded grimly, knowing that former Thane Hidnurr had plundered several imperial supply-caravans. The war had hit Whiterun hold, but it was not yet here in full force. But it would be.

_Season unending, _Idolaf mused quietly.

They strode towards the stairs to the wind district, having to push their way through a large crowd of early market visitors. They passed the gallows, were the now-crow-food remains of two warriors, serving Hidnurr The Traitorous, hang. The market was very large, standing on the biggest plaza in Whiterun. All around them people were haggling and buying, pushing each other while they moved from stand to stand. Such was life in the large city of Whiterun, and Idolaf loved it. To his left an elf and a Redguard were arguing about the prize for a spear, and to his right a common fishwife was haggling with a city guard, the guard obviously loosing. He could smell the mix between smoke, fish, meat and foreign spices as he walked. He knew that the more diverse a markets smell were, the more money it involved. And a large chunk of that was entering the already immense Battle-Born wealth. The carl and the heir reached the stairs, finally putting the crowd behind themselves, only to reach a new one. Up her, though, the people were not as loud, and he could smell the clear scent of early autumn winds. Smoke was also present in the air, since it was the district where most folk had their homes, but the air was purer. Clearer.

"Idolaf..." Jon begun. Idolaf stared at him, realising his brother was about to say something difficult.

"Yes?"

"I... I would like to thank you for not revealing my secret to father." Jon said as they passed the Gildergreen.

"You should unmake that bloody secret. Give it up, you can never wed that lass. She is a Gray-Mane."

"Our clans were friends for years, _dear brother_." Jon's voice was ice, and despite himself Idolaf could feel a shudder spreading about his spine.

"But not any longer." he said bluntly. Pretty words and arguments were Jon's domain, skald that he was, but Idolaf knew how to deliver short, blunt truths.

They passed Jorrvaskr, the mead hall of the companions, and the shrine to Talos, whit its ever screaming priest, in silence. They reached the stairs to Dragonsrech and begun the ascent.


	4. A Wolf To Slay The Wyrm

**This is the final part of this fan-fiction series, but not really. Sounds weird, I know. But I intend to show the story of the Dovahkiin and the burning of Helgen. Several characters from "A tale of crossed blades" will re-aper later on in the next series, but I need too show another side of what is going on in Skyrim. You can pretty much see "A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES" as some sort of prologue of the next series. This needs to be done, because I can not have the Dragonborn's own perspective just jump up in here, since the destruction of Helgen happened like a week earlier. Also, this fanfiction is full of cursing and violence and stuff, so if you find such material offensive, do not read this.**

A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES PART FOUR, A WOLF TO SLAY THE WYRM

**Janella, the refugee**

**She did not mind the cold all to much, to be honest. **Butthen again, her father had been partly Nord, and she had a nice and long bear-fur cloak to keep her warm. _No, it is the winds that haunt me_ she thought. And strong winds they were. The Jeralls were high and merciless, cold and windy. They where currently in a valley, one known as Wolfroar pass. Wolfroar was covered in grass and stone, beautiful mountain flowers grew everywhere. In the middle of the valley was a large lake, one that showed promise of fish and clean, cold water to fill their water-skins. That was good, since Janella was growing tired of eating snow. The Wolfroar pass was maybe two leagues from west to east, and eight from north to south, not a large valley, but not exactly big either.

The wind got worse as they walked, and she found herself staring at her mother's back, trying to concentrate on something comforting as night fell down on them. _She looks really bloody skinny. _This worried her. Her mother had seemed to grow smaller and more sullen during their travels, and her once warm brown eyes were mere shells of what they had once been. She would stop and gaze into the distance. It was obvious that Janella's mother was still overcome by grief. But she never wept. It would have made Janella feel better if her mother had the fire and strength to scream and cry, but she never did, not any more. She would just gaze around with those empty eyes, seeing all and nothing.

Darius was oddly sullen, as well. He seemed slightly awkward in her presence, as if wondering what to say. And she would often get a weird feeling when they spoke, as if elven maidens were dancing to "Ragnar The Red" inside her stomach while releasing butterflies. But not in a bad way. It felt sweet, and she hated it. That was the way pretty little ladies felt in the songs, when their heroes in golden armour came to rescue them from the ugly little wizard who had locked them up in a tower. That was stupid, since in real life the wizard could probably cook the little knight alive and melt his armour. But songs tended to be stupid, and Darius was no shining hero. And she was most deferentially not a fine little lady in a tower. Not to mention he would probably be dead before they got out of these bloody mountains. No, it was best not to get attached. _And I can still have my fun with him in the bedroll, I guess. Just no hearty-hearty. _she told herself. The snow started falling more heavily and the night's darkness got thicker. _We should find dome bloody shelter soon, or the cold will get us._

**Hayna**

_**Divines damn this bloody cold.**_ Hayna had seen what cold winds and frost could do to a man. It had been her first experience with death, and her grandfather had been the teacher. He had been hunting, her mother had told her. Then he got stuck in the forest due to a snow storm, during the hour of the wolf. He had still been alive when he got back to their farm outside of Bruma, but only barely. His frostbite had been bad, and Hayna's father had insisted on taking of his foot to prevent it from spreading. Her grandsire had promptly refused his son, telling him "I will be fine, I will be fine". He never did get fine though. She could still remember how grey and stark and cruel the sky over the chapel had looked the day they buried him. _So many had of those I loved have died, and the gods always saw fit to keep me alive. Grandfather, mother, father, Elisa, Balon and now Edrik. Edrik most of all. _She wanted to weep, to scream and curse the world, but she had cried herself dry long ago.

"A cave!"

The words jerked her from her thoughts, and she realised that the Colovian was correct: there was a cave right there by the side of a cliff, just a few feet away. The cold was eating her, and her breath was mist, so this shelter was merry news indeed. The three of them pushed their way through the snow storm, towards the place that was now their only hope.

**Darius**

**The cave was warm like a fathers embrace and sweet like a lovers kiss, at least to the three of them. **It was not exactly a small cave, but you could at least see the deepest parts of it from the entrance, so there was no risk for surprise Goblin or mountain lion attacks. There was no bone or anything on the cave floor, so no beast had made this cave its nest. Darius helped Janella place out the bedrolls while Hayna prepared the fire. She had a knack for that, Darius had noticed. Maybe more than what made sense in a woman whom was a farmer's daughter and an innkeeper's widow. He could not help but to suspect that there was more to her than met the eye, but Darius had long since decided not to push it.

The cave became quite comfortable after they had set up camp, and the fire quickly warmed it. Darius had hunted a few days earlier, so there was enough food to see them through a few days f hiding from the storm. He had tried to shoot a buck, but he was only decent with a longbow. Janella was better, but her fathers longbow was literally bigger than her, so Darius had hunted instead. The old innkeeper had been taller than Darius by half a head, and he had been stronger as well. That had not improved his own chance of hitting the animals. But his father, Cladius, had taught him how to make traps many years earlier.

_I wonder were that old bastard is at now. _Last they had spoken, his father had mentioned a desire to retire. But that was before Darius was stationed on Stros M'Kai. and they had only had some brief contact by letter since. _He never even met my daughter. Bloody hell, I should track him down and remind him he has a family. _

The thought of his daughter brought up bad memories, but he forced them down. _She is happy with her grandparents, and that is all that matters _he tried to tell himself. But it was painful, knowing that he was as bad a father as Cladius had been during the years when he had been stationed in Kvatch. He remembered the way she would smile at the world, as if everything was a big game that she wanted to win. Thinking of his past made his heart ache, so he simply thought about something else. He had become surprisingly adept at forcing away bad thoughts over the last few months.

When he woke the next morning, it was to the song of storm. The weather had obviously not improved while they slept. Then he recalled last night again, and that forced a grin to his face. He and Janella had made love, and he had enjoyed it even more than usual. Why, he did not know. His first instinct was to kiss her on the forehead before getting up, but that was stupid. That was the sort of thing lovers did, not two people that basically used one another for pleasure, people who might be dead upon the morrow. Forcing himself up from the warm bedroll took more effort than usual.

As it turned out, Hayna was already up. And she was sitting by the fire. _As usual, I suppose. _He wanted to ask her what made fires deserving of such a tender treatment. When the woman gazed into the flames she had that slightly confused look of someone remembering good days, long past. It intrigued him, but he did not feel it was his place to ask. Darius found the rabbits he had caught in the traps, and began making breakfast as the storm raged outside the cave.

**Jon Battle-Born, heir to Stridborg keep**

**The hooves sang against the grass as**** Jon led the cavalry charge**. The shield wall that thane Hidnurr Hoarhammer's men had formed still stood strong, but they would break before the charge hit them. Some of the men in Hidnurr's army were former members of the imperial legion or the Whiterun guard, of course, but most were simple farm buys who had simply joined up with the "true Nords company", as they called themselves, because they sympathized with Jarl Ulfric, holding no actual experience in combat. They were not cowards, but most were undisciplined, and there courage would break.

The shield wall broke just moments before the charge hit, and the rest should have been butchery. But Hidnurr blew his war-horn and the fleeing men returned to the battle. The sun burned happily up in the sky as the sides collided properly, making the steel on blades and armours shine. Arrows flew, steel kissed steel and horses and men alike screamed in agony and blood lust. _Were is that bloody traitor? _Jon's did not know any more. The song of battle had already taken him, and he rode down a Hoarhammer carl, crushing him under the hooves of his steed. He heard a scream, and suddenly his horse's front legs exploded in a cloud of blood and bone, and Jon hit the ground hard. He somehow managed to avoid hitting his head into the ground, but he lost his helm somewhere among the rubble of corpses and dropped weapons that were already littering the ground. For a moment, Jon felt sick. But that ended abruptly when he saw a flash of steel.

Jon did not know how he managed to avoid the berserker's furious blows, but he did know that he could not keep it up for long. He caught another axe blow on his shield, which drew splinters of wood from it. It would break soon, and then the berserker would find him and easy victim. Jon had only one real advantage, and that was his mind. The other Nord was stronger, but he was completely taken by blood lust. Jon began seeing a pattern in the berserker's movements. The berserker vasted no time, constantly swinging his large axe from side to side, with a lot of strength but poor technique. Jon had been clever enough to wear boiled leather, and not plate-mail, allowing him to fight with more agility. He waited just until the berserker prepared to make a chop from left to right, and Jon moved in, quick as lightning. He hit the warrior in the face with the hilt of his sword, and quickly split the other man's skull in two with the blade. Jon cried out in pure battle lust, kicking the newly made corpse aside. Another man came at him, but Jon simply parried and impaled the fool upon his blade. And then he killed another. And another. And another.

After what seemed to be hours of fighting one man, a carl, by the look of his armour, a big fellow with long, sand-coloured hair and a large scar, knocked Jon down. For a moment Jon felt fear. He thought of his family, of his friends, of his dog. But most of all he thought of Olfina. What would she think, when the news reached Whiterun? Would she weep, like a little Breton lady from a song? Somehow he doubted that. She would curse him and insult his courage, for leaving her. She would be sad, but she would deal with it like a man, washing it down with mead. The thought made him smile. He closed his eyes and readied himself for the deathblow.

It never came. When Jon opened his eyes all he saw was his brother Idolaf, holding a big, sandy-haired and scared head in left hand. His right was reaching out for Jon, preparing to help him up. Jon took it.

"You are a stupid fucker, you know that Jon?"

"I am aware, yes."

Idolaf smiled and spoke:

"Let's go kill some traitors!"

One man attacked Idolaf at that very moment, but Idolaf simply swung his axe into the man's armo, breaking a sip of blood. The attacker fell don on his knees, and Jon finished him of.

"Men! To me!"

Some fifty Stidborg men and about twenty Whiterun men rallied behind him at command, and they tried yet another charge.

It was successful, and Hidnurr's men finally broke. But some of them still stood, fighting a lost battle. Jon knew what it would take to properly end this. And he also knew that it was a bloody stupid idea.

Jon's blade met Hidnurr's, and the steel sung. Jon kept going, but his arm was sore. _Single fucking combat? What was I thinking? _Hidnurr's axe flew through the air, and Jon parried.

"Ulfric Stormcloak killed the High King in fair combat! He is the rightful king, damn you! Every true Nord should see this!" Hidnurr argued as they fought.

"Whiterun is neutral, you whoreson! Too attack legionaries is treason towards the jarl!"

"If the jarl does not support us, he is a milk-drinker! No craven shall rule over me!" These words drew cheers and encouragement from the Hoarhammer men.

Their blades kissed again and again and again, but Jon was tiring. _I need to end this, and fast! _He parried another strike, and this time he simply moved in and stepped Hidnurr right on the foot. The boldness and stupidity of the move obviously caught the thane of guard, so Jon threw a punch to Hoarhammer's face, crushing his nose. He ripped the helmet of the thane's head, punching him again. Hidnurr threw him of and knocked him down, their swords long forgotten. For a while they simply struggled on the ground, both failing to get the upper hand. Jon managed to get up again, but so did the thane. They both found their weapons and swung. Suddenly Jon felt a terrible pain in his chest. The last thing Jon saw before unconsciousness took him was a his brother, screaming in outrage.

Jon's vision came into focus slowly. He was in some sort hospital tent, and and old man with a grey beard and a fat belly was tending to him. A strange, sickening smell, like dead flesh and unclean latrines haunted the tent. _It comes from me! _He realised, the thought making him feel nauseous. Jon had a feeling that he did not want to see what his wound looked like at the present.

"Did we win? Will I live?"

"Yes and yes, remarkably. You were lucky, I suppose. " the old healer answered, a kind "grandfather" sort of smile on his weather bitten face.

_I will see Olfina again._

"Is Hidnurr alive?"

"I would wager not, lad. You opened his chest from left to right, I heard."

"I see. Send for my brother."

"Sir, you are badly injured. Perhaps you ought to rest..."

"It was not a question."

"I am sorry, m'lord. I will go get him immediately."

"That you will."

About five minutes passed before Idolaf entered the tent, a wide grin on his face.

"To bad you did not die. I would have been the heir to Stridborg." His brother said with a teasing voice.

"If you wish to jape, you can leave. I want information."

"What kind?"

"Have you sent Thane Hidnurr's bones back to his family?"

"Why would we do that? The man betrayed the bloody empire?"

"You are such a fool, brother. Whiterun is neutral. We fought him because he disobeyed the jarl, not because of a betrayal against old Titus. The jarl needs the loyalty clan Hoarhammer, and that of their lands."

"About that... We received a pigeon from Dargonsreach this very morning. The jarl has stripped clan Hoarhammer of all fiefs and lands. They do not have the right to be anything better than carls any more."

Jon had not even considered that. The Hoarhammers had ruled over their lands in the western parts of the hold since the second era. Many would be displeased by their fall from power. _But I guess just as many will be pleased. _

"Who will take over?"

"Some minor lord from their lands who refused to follow Hidnurr in his little rebbelion, I suppose."

Jon nodded. That was the best arrangement they could hope for.

"Jon, I f I may... You should join the celebrations. The men are worshipping you. They say that you risked your own life to defend those of others. You challenging Hidnurr to single combat has made you some sort of hero, in their foolish eyes. I heard a skald claim he would write a song about it. It will probably be a very bad song, but I got a feeling that the entire camp will be singing it before the moons go up. They want to see you, to make sure that you are not dead."

"Jealous?"

Idolaf laughed and helped Jon up to his feet, supporting Jon as he took a few clumsy steps.

The celebrations were wild. Everyone was drinking and singing. For a moment, Jon felt only cold. _They are celebrating butchery. _Then someone put a bottle of mead in his hand and his doubts went away.

A week after the battle they had finally reached Whiterun again. _That was a successful campaign. So why do I feel so empty?_ He mused as they climbed the steps to Dragonsreach. The large oaken doors opened for them and they entered the great hall.

The hall was very large, the largest room Jon had ever been in. He could still recall when he had entered it for the first time, when he had been only a boy, clutching his mothers hand. The shear size of the room still filled him with awe. It was beautiful, as well. In the inner part of the room stood a large hearth and several long tables, though the tables saw little use when the jarl was not holding a feast. On the innermost wall of the great hall hung the fabled skull of Numinex, as large as an adult Cave-Bear. And under it stood the Throne of Jeek, a magnificent stone seat. And it appeared as if the jarl was holding court.

He was. Officials, thanes and some of the wealthier inhabitants of Whiterun littered the room, though only two people stood near the jarl: the steward, Avenicci, on his right hand, and the jarl's Housecarl, Irileth; on his left. And before the throne stood another figure, one that Jon somehow recognised.

He was about six feet tall, and he had long, though not quite shoulder-length, black hair. _He looks quite strong, I suppose, though no one could ever call him stocky. _A bit of black bristle covered his jaw. Jon kept getting the feeling that he had meet this man at some point.

And then Balgruuf spoke.

"What happened at the watchtower?"

"The dragon was there, my jarl." The stranger had a lord's voice, hard and unyielding. His voice made Jon think of iron and thunder, with a sip of honey. It could be heard clearly even where Jon stood.

"What happened after it was slain. Details, young man, details."

"Some sort of light came from the dead wyrm, and..." The man swallowed, as if he was accepting a hard truth.

"Continue."

"I absorbed it's soul."

_Gods be good..._


End file.
